


Lover of the Light

by LadyKyrin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Confessions, Enjolras the oblivious idiot has a massive crush, First Kiss, Fluff, Grantaire isn't drunk this time, If you don't count a drunken first kiss a long time ago, M/M, Misunderstandings, R the other oblivious idiot also has a massive crush, Some pining, new year's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 15:17:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5631259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKyrin/pseuds/LadyKyrin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“How long?”</p>
<p>Combeferre shrugged, but Courfeyrac, half-draped over Ferre’s lap, scrunched his face up thoughtfully.</p>
<p>“An hour?” he guessed, nudging his head against Combeferre’s hand like a cat. “Perhaps longer.”</p>
<p>Enjolras was already half out of his seat. “Has anyone thought to check if he’s still conscious?”</p>
<p>“It’s Grantaire,” said Joly from Enjolras’ other side, where he sat curled around Musichetta, “and it’s New Year’s. What did you expect?”</p>
<p>(It has been three years since Enjolras last attended the New Year's Eve party at the Musain, and he doesn't know what's brought him here tonight, but he does know one thing: someone is missing from the festivities.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lover of the Light

**Author's Note:**

> I know I'm a little bit late, but here's a fluffy New Year's fic for anyone who wants one. It was meant to be a quick drabble but I suppose it didn't really turn out that way. *nervous laughter* I hope you enjoy!
> 
> (Fic title is technically a Mumford & Sons lyric, but it was actually inspired by Hugo's line "No one loves the light like a blind man.")

Enjolras was late to the party. 

It was nearly eleven, and he had never seen the city so alive. The streets were crammed to bursting with people, all of them moving, none of them silent, most of them drunk; sparklers danced like swarms of fireflies in the falling dark, throwing bright red-gold light across the snow-slick streets of Paris as the merrymakers whirled them overhead. Enjolras caught the throaty, off-key strains of a bawdy drinking song as he passed the open door of a tavern, and he tucked his smile into his collar as the melody caught him up and pushed him onward, lightening his step and his spirits.

Somewhere in the near distance, a clock tower began to chime the eleventh hour of December thirty-first, 1831. 

It was extraordinary how swiftly a year could pass by when one was never at rest.

Though the sparklers and lanterns and premature fireworks lit up the dark like daylight, they provided none of its warmth, and Enjolras pulled his scarf more snugly about his neck, shivering as his breath billowed silver before him. A light snow was still falling, more mist than flakes, and his vision blurred as it collected on his lashes. Freezing air pierced his lungs like a knife as he blinked away the moisture and sighed. 

He wasn’t sure what he was doing here. It was New Year’s Eve, after all; everyone would be drunk on either wine, the thrill of the festivities, or both. If everyone was still conscious by the time the clock struck twelve, Enjolras would consider it a minor miracle. He’d be a fool to think that any serious discussion or planning would be done tonight.

He told himself that he didn’t begrudge his friends their holiday. He didn’t. Of course he didn’t. He just wished that he couldn’t practically hear the piles of history volumes and notebooks back at his little apartment calling his name, insisting that he return to his work, that he get something done despite — no, _especially because of_ — the fact that no one else was.

It was so very, very cold.

His boots scuffed on the snow-kissed stones as his stride faltered. It wouldn’t take him too long to walk back, maybe he could get back before anyone noticed that he was—

“Here!” cried a familiar voice, wild with joy. “Enjolras is _here!”_

Enjolras skidded to a halt — the sidewalks were truly treacherous in winter — and froze, staring helplessly at Joly. The young medical student was beaming at him from the doorway of the Musain, a drink in his hand and a triumphant flush in his cheeks. He eagerly beckoned Enjolras forward with his cane, looking almost giddy.

“Pay up, gentlemen!” he announced over his shoulder, clutching the doorframe as he began to sway a little. “He’s _here._ The chief has arrived.”

“You cannot be serious!” someone slurred from behind him, and Enjolras suppressed a smile as a very tipsy Bossuet stumbled into view. “My God! He _is_ here. Good eye. Well-spotted.”

Enjolras, much to his credit, did not laugh. “Actually,” he said, repentance already settling heavy in the pit of stomach, “I was just about to—“

“Come in, I’m sure!” boomed Bahorel, appearing behind his companions with an ale in hand. His grin practically split his face. “I wouldn’t believe it if I weren’t looking at it. Surprised you aren’t spending this fine winter night attending to your beloved mistress, Enjolras. She’s always seemed rather demanding.”

Enjolras gave them a thin smile, lips taut and stinging with the cold. He would never live that one down. “Do not forget that she is your mistress as well.”

“Yes, yes,” said Bahorel, all lowered brows and mock-seriousness. “But in addition to the lovely _Patria,_ I also like to occasionally entertain the equally lovely _Leisure, Drink,_ and _Laughter._ I find _Patria’s_ company exhausting, should I remain in it for too long.”

“Our tastes must differ, then,” said Enjolras, as lightly as he could manage. “But in all honesty, I really should—“

“Have a drink!” declared Courfeyrac, materializing alongside his friends with an exasperated but fond-looking Combeferre peering over his shoulder, glasses resting low on his nose. “You’re awfully late, you know. You’d best catch up.” 

His grin was blinding, his eyes gleaming under the bright, dark curls bouncing on his brow, and maybe that was why Enjolras reached out and took the glass he offered — even if it wasn’t exactly the blaze of rebellion, he wasn’t sure he could bear to see that light extinguished. 

He brought the cup to his mouth — then hesitated, teeth worrying his bottom lip.

“It is almost New Year’s,” said another voice, softer but still strong: Jehan, whom Bahorel had hoisted onto his broad, sturdy shoulders. “It _is_ a holiday. Surely taking a night for yourself will not spoil all your plans?”

There was a beat of complete quiet. Until this moment, Enjolras had never been tempted to call a silence _hopeful,_ but he could come up with no better description for it.

“It is almost New Year’s,” he repeated slowly, gazing into the claret depths of his glass for a moment before lifting his eyes to his friends. “Perhaps”— he took a breath, inhaling so much of the wine’s sharp, heady bouquet that his head immediately began to swim—“Perhaps I will stay.” 

His friends’ expressions immediately brightened, and he held up a finger, warning, “Not for long. A drink, perhaps two, and then I must depart.”

Immediately, the assembled Amis let out a raucous cheer, and Enjolras could not help but laugh as they gathered close around him and swept him into the Musain.

“It’s a pity you did not arrive earlier, Enjolras,” said Combeferre affably as they moved toward the bar, keeping one hand around his glass of wine and the other on Courfeyrac’s arm. “Joly and Bossuet sang a lovely ballad for Musichetta—“

Joly and Bossuet roared their agreement, clinking their glasses together.

“—and ‘Chetta told them to stop, or else she’d throw them out in the street like the squawking alley cats they resembled.” Combeferre’s shoulders shook with laughter, and Enjolras looked to him in surprise. He was unused to seeing much more than sage solemnity on his second-in-command’s face, but the drinks and gaiety of the occasion seemed to have smoothed and settled him, relieving some of the tension from his voice and form.

He surprised himself by reaching out and giving Combeferre’s shoulder a firm squeeze. Combeferre glanced up, surprised but smiling.

“It is a good night,” he said after a pause, raising his glass in Enjolras’ direction. “Enjoy it.”  
Enjolras smiled, steeled himself, and put his cup to his lips.

It had been some time since he last drank, but not so long that he couldn’t tell that the wine was good. It was warm striking his tongue and even warmer going down, tangy but not overpowering, sweet but not cloying. When he finally swallowed and looked up, the Amis were grinning at him.

“I never thought I’d live to see the day,” said Feuilly from his place beside the bar, his slim artisan’s fingers curled around a half-empty glass. “I thought you swore off alcohol. You know, after the last… incident.”

Enjolras felt himself flush, deeply.

“I swore off getting drunk,” he said, taking another sip of wine in an attempt to hide his face, “not the alcohol itself.”

“Yes, well,” snickered Bossuet, “those things often end up being one and the same, do they not?”

Next to him, Courfeyrac let out a sputtering cough, but it sounded an awful lot like the word _lightweight._ Enjolras shot them both dirty looks.

“I can hold my liquor just fine, thank you very much,” he said, lifting his chin and draining his wine glass, as if that might prove his point. He held it out to Feuilly, who seemed to be in charge of the bottles.

His friend arched a dark brow at him. “Are you sure?”

“Hey, not so fast,” Jehan protested, piping up from atop Bahorel’s shoulders. He was so slight that his head didn’t reach the ceiling even from such a high perch. “You did say one or two drinks, but that doesn’t mean you can just gulp them down and desert us.”

Enjolras blinked, almost forgetting to hold his glass steady as Feuilly sloshed more wine into it. He didn’t _want_ to desert them, he realized after a moment, looking between the drink in his hand and the bright, exuberant faces that surrounded him. He thought of his books back home, of his notes and plans, waiting for the usual accompanying pang of guilt and regret that always came when he was awake and not working, and it did come — still tangible, but weaker than before, almost drowned out by the tingling heat of the wine. Almost.

Almost, he decided, was enough.

The Amis must have sensed the shift in him, for their grins broadened, and Combeferre lifted his glass. 

“To the chief,” he said, his smile wide and warm.

“ _To the chief!”_ the others shouted, raising their own cups with such enthusiasm that a considerable amount of wine splattered the floor, but no one seemed to mind much as they all tipped their heads back and drank their glasses dry.

After that, it got easier. Everyone was in unabashedly high spirits, passing around drinks and jokes, sharing stories and seats as they moved about the café; they welcomed Enjolras into their midst without hesitation, like he’d never before left the Musain early in the evening to go back to his work, like he hadn’t been ready to turn around and go home when Joly caught him, and the realization flooded him with warmth. He was as much their friend as they were his. They would come to his side at a corner table in a bar just as quickly as they would beneath their scarlet banner.

The bottles kept pouring, and Enjolras kept drinking.

It didn’t take long, however, for him to realize that something was off. There was a break in the rhythm of the group’s easy, playful conversation, a missing link, quick beats of silence where there should’ve been lively words. 

Enjolras turned to Combeferre, eyebrows raised.

“He’s on the roof,” Combeferre said, perfectly in tune with Enjolras’ thoughts, as usual. “He took a bottle with him, but he has not been back.”

“How long?” 

Combeferre shrugged, but Courfeyrac, half-draped over Ferre’s lap, scrunched his face up thoughtfully. 

“An hour?” he guessed, nudging his head against Combeferre’s hand like a cat. “Perhaps longer.”

Enjolras was already half out of his seat. “Has anyone thought to check if he’s still conscious?”

“It’s Grantaire,” said Joly from Enjolras’ other side, where he sat curled around Musichetta, “and it’s New Year’s. What did you expect?”

Enjolras blinked. It had been three years since he was last at the Musain on New Year’s. “What do you mean?”

The others exchanged significant glances. 

“Well.” Joly spoke delicately, as if the words might break in his mouth and cut him. “See, every New Year’s, R goes up to the roof—“

“Alone,” Bossuet supplied.

“—and he comes down sometime after dawn, and no one says anything of it. Suppose you could call it a tradition by this point.”

“A tradition,” Enjolras echoed.

The others nodded.

Enjolras considered them for a moment, then got to his feet.

“Oh, come now, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac whined, reaching after him. “You’ve just arrived!”

“I leave only to check on Grantaire,” Enjolras promised, making for the staircase that wound up through the ceiling and second story to reach the roof. “I will be back soon.”

Combeferre called out a warning: “He won’t like it.”

“He never likes anything I do,” said Enjolras, more bitterly than he’d intended. “I see no reason for that to change.”

With that, he began to climb.

 

When Enjolras reached the hatch that opened out onto the roof, he emerged into a much colder and whiter night than the one he’d left only half an hour before. The snow had begun to fall more thickly, lending a pale, bright shimmer to the city below, and the sky was dark and close, lit by a few determined stars and a distant sliver of moon. Every so often a firework shattered among the clouds, splitting the night in a burst of light and sound. Across Paris, beneath the clock tower, a massive crowd had begun to form.

On the far side of the roof, very near the edge but not quite upon it, sat Grantaire.

He was upright, to Enjolras’ relief, but very still, his long dancer’s legs folded beneath him. His fingers lay curled on his thighs; his head was bent, and a crown of snowflakes was already twinkling in his hair, pure and blinding white against the wild black. There was a bottle by his knee but not in his hand.

“Leave me be, Joly,” he was saying, the wind nearly carrying his voice away. At the sound of Enjolras’ nearing footsteps, he started to turn, his exasperated breath puffing from his lips like smoke. “Joly—“

He caught sight of Enjolras, and froze.

He said, in a voice that was at once far steadier and far shakier than Enjolras had expected, “You are not Joly.”

“At last, something we can agree on.” Enjolras cocked his head, struggling not to shiver as the wind cut right through his waistcoat. “You are not drunk.”

Grantaire gave him a brittle look. “That makes two things. What is the world coming to?”

There was a hint of venom in his voice, and Enjolras took a step back, the soles of his boots slipping a little on the stone roof. “I’ll just be going, then,” he said, surprised at how difficult the words were to get out. Grantaire cut a bleak, unrefined figure against the shining city, the snowflakes adorning his hair and clothes the only beautiful thing about him. “I just wanted to make sure you wouldn’t need to be carried back down.”

“I?”  
Enjolras paused. “Pardon?”  
Grantaire was staring at him, cheeks red from the cold. “You said _I,”_ he elucidated, his gaze blue and piercing. “The others did not send you?”

Bewildered, Enjolras shook his head.

Grantaire seemed taken aback by that, his mouth twisting as he blinked snow from his lashes. Suddenly restless and uncertain, Enjolras turned to go.

“You don’t have to leave,” Grantaire said abruptly.

Enjolras started, almost tripping on a loose stone.

“Unless you want to, of course,” Grantaire added. The words were quick, his voice rough. “Do not let me stop you.”

Enjolras turned and looked at him — really _looked_ at him, at his tired eyes and slumped shoulders, at the smudge on his cheek that could’ve been oil paint or a boxing bruise, at the snow sticking to the shoulders of his green waistcoat and the curve of his throat as he swallowed.

Enjolras asked, “Are you sure?”

Stiffly but without pause, Grantaire nodded.

Enjolras bit his lip; then, slowly, tentatively, he made his way to where Grantaire sat. Grantaire didn’t look at him as he lowered himself to the frosted stones, allowing the bottle to act as a barrier between them. Despite the space, Enjolras was all too aware of Grantaire’s scent: not smoky and thick and absinthe-soaked, like he might’ve expected, but faint and clean, like melting snow and freshly laundered clothes. When he spoke, the note of wine on his breath was soft enough to be pleasant instead of repulsive.

“We did not expect to see you here tonight,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras could not help but feel that the _we_ in that sentence was meant to be a wall between them, a barricade. A reminder that while history did often repeat itself, it sometimes did not.

It stung more than Enjolras cared to admit.

“I did not expect to find myself here,” he admitted, resisting the urge to toy with the laces of his boots. “Had it not been for Joly, I do not think I would be.”

Grantaire didn’t reply to that, only made a soft noise in the back of his throat and laced his fingers over his bent knees.

Enjolras swallowed. Grantaire stared out over the city.

“It is a lovely night,” Enjolras said for the sake of filling the silence, wincing at the ungainliness of the words. Quiet with Grantaire was not the _absence_ of anything, but rather the presence of some ghost in the room, an awareness that the artist had much on his mind and was giving voice to none of it. Somehow the cynic’s silence cut deeper than his words ever could.

“It is.” Grantaire’s voice was even but cautious. Enjolras risked a sidelong glance and saw that the young artist was sitting up unnaturally straight, so stiff that his shirt and waistcoat were pulled tight and smooth across his slim shoulders. “Care for a drink?”

He nudged the half-empty wine bottle toward Enjolras, and Enjolras took a mental tally of how many glasses he’d already had. He truly _could_ hold his alcohol, but no one believed it, because without the wine to blame it on there was no rational explanation for what had happened on New Year’s three years before. At least, not one that seemed rational to anyone but Enjolras.

He couldn’t help but wonder if Grantaire was thinking of that night, too. If that was the reason he had come here on this day every year since, alone, not to drink himself senseless but to just… sit, and watch, and think.

He remembered suddenly that Grantaire had asked him a question, and shook himself free of his thoughts.

"Just a little,” he murmured, accepting the bottle and taking a swig from it. He sucked in his breath as it went down — the wine was almost icy from the late December chill, so cold that it burned its way down his throat. Grantaire stared at him.

“I thought you did not drink anymore.” His eyes were bluer than Enjolras remembered, probably since his pupils weren’t so blown with alcohol that they swallowed up all the color.

“I do not get drunk anymore,” Enjolras corrected, setting the bottle to his right. He was swiftly tiring of all these barriers. “Contrary to popular belief, there is, in fact, a difference.”

“I know.” Grantaire dragged his hair back from his face with one hand, scattering the white lace of snow that had gathered in it. “Why are you here, Enjolras?”

Enjolras didn’t know why he was so surprised; Grantaire was nothing if not blunt, and reasonable. Their friends were all two stories beneath their feet, singing and laughing and drinking and probably having a grand time, and Enjolras was here. Cold. Quiet. Sober.

He said, “Why are _you_ here, R?”

Grantaire scoffed lightly and reached around Enjolras for the bottle of wine. His arm pressed Enjolras’ back as he did so, heavy and warm, and it took all of Enjolras’ willpower not to arch away from the touch — or, even worse, into it. He felt his pulse flicker like the sparklers in the street and closed his eyes, loathing himself.

This was _not_ three years ago. Grantaire wasn’t so close that their breath mingled, his smile soft and uncertain; his eyes weren’t on Enjolras’ mouth, and his hip wasn’t under Enjolras’ hand. That moment had long since come and gone, like everything else that Enjolras had ever wanted and denied himself.

“Not for the reason you think,” Grantaire said, flatly and belatedly. He gripped the slender neck of the wine bottle but didn’t bring it to his mouth. “I do have some dignity, you know.”

It might as well have been a slap. Enjolras’ mouth opened, but no sound escaped.

“I am not so pathetic as I must seem,” Grantaire went on bitterly, rapping on the stone ledge with his bottle. “It has been three years, do you think I do not understand? I have made no further attempts to draw your eye or your affections; I am well aware that they will never rest with me. I don’t— I cannot begrudge you your passions, or their objects. Do not think I come here to relive a mistake.”

Enjolras’ breath halted. The words seemed far away, impossible, like sunlight streaming through water as he strained for the surface.  

“God above,” he breathed out. “I did not think I’d had this much to drink.”

Grantaire shot him a look of bewilderment. “You are hardly drunk.”

“You must be mistaken.”

Grantaire shook his head, stubborn as ever. “If you seek to mock me—“

“I have never sought to mock you.”

Grantaire blinked snow-coated lashes, caught off-guard, and Enjolras met his gaze with unprecedented ferocity.

“I have _never_ sought to mock you,” he repeated, and though his chest ached with the words, he thought it might be the most welcome pain he’d ever felt. “We may disagree, Grantaire, and you may drive me mad, but to mock you was never my intent.”

A muscle feathered in Grantaire’s jaw as he fixed his teeth in his bottom lip. “Then what _is_ your intent?”

What _was_ his intent? Had he even known when he’d left his friends at the bar downstairs? Or when he’d first caught sight of Grantaire at the roof’s edge? Had he known three years ago, pressed up against Grantaire in the blue and silver dark, tasting the wine off the cynic’s lips?

Those same lips were parted now, whether with surprise or unspoken words or something else, Enjolras could not begin to guess. Under the sporadic glow of the early fireworks, Grantaire was a study in shadows and angles: crooked nose, sharp black brows, hard jaw and chin held aloft by a slim, elegant neck. Dark lavender half-moons were etched deeply below his wide, long-lashed eyes, betraying many a sleepless night. 

Grantaire was not the kind of figure that one would attend an art museum to admire, but he was the kind that artists loved to try to render — not because he was beautiful, but because he was utterly inimitable. Enjolras did not know of a single artist that he would trust to capture the wild intelligence that lit Grantaire’s every glance, or the precise curve of his mouth when he was about to lash out and dismantle an opposing argument, wielding his eloquence and cleverly concealed intellect like a knife up his sleeve. He didn’t know of any sculptor who could use his hammer and chisel to show the warmth behind the tiny, secret smile that Grantaire wore whenever Gavroche fell asleep upon his shoulder, curled companionably against his side. He knew of no painter who could replicate the effortless, ethereal grace of Grantaire’s form as he turned and turned and turned to the beat of a drum and the cry of a violin, lifted upon his toes, eyes closed as he lost himself in the rhythm, in the melody. Not even Grantaire could’ve limned himself in such a way. He couldn’t depict something that he was blind to in the first place.

Before he could think, Enjolras surged forward. His hands found the dark curls at the nape of Grantaire’s neck, and Grantaire’s latched automatically onto Enjolras’ waist, thumbs pressing just under the arch of his bottom rib. Shock crossed Grantaire’s face like lightning.

“Enjolras,” he said, and Enjolras delighted in how ragged his voice had turned, how unsteady. “What are you—“

“My intent,” Enjolras said, breathlessly, “is to remedy a past mistake.” 

Grantaire’s hands tightened on his sides, sparking heat in the pit of his stomach.

“A mistake,” Grantaire echoed, sounding dazed.

“Perhaps the worst one I have ever made.” Enjolras slid a finger under Grantaire’s chin, studying that sharp, clever, beautiful mouth, thinking of all the times he’d been distracted during a meeting by the idea of relearning how it felt beneath his own. “Do you permit it?”

“For God’s sake,” Grantaire breathed, and kissed him.

Grantaire, it seemed, had no intention of rushing things along, and for once Enjolras did not argue with him. The snow kept falling as Grantaire lifted Enjolras into his lap; Enjolras threaded his arms about his neck, and Grantaire sighed as he gently tested the softness of Grantaire’s throat with his teeth, leaving a tiny, vivid mark that he immediately soothed with a kiss. Any flakes that landed upon them melted instantly in the mingled heat of their bodies.

“My Enjolras,” Grantaire whispered, pressing Enjolras to him with one hand as the other rose to cradle his face. Enjolras closed his eyes as Grantaire’s thumb stroked back and forth over his cheekbone, the gesture aimless but soothing. “What of your _Patria?”_

Enjolras’ eyes flicked open again, meeting Grantaire’s steadily as he settled his legs around the artist’s slim waist.

“I think she can do without me for a night,” he said, his voice coming from someplace low in his throat as he wound his fingers into Grantaire’s unruly curls. “And whatever other nights you wish.”

Grantaire let out a tiny, helpless sound, but managed to dodge Enjolras’ attempt to drag him up into another kiss. “I do not wish to distract you. I know what this country means to you, and what you will someday mean to it.”

Enjolras blinked at him in disbelief. “Who are you,” he said, coaxing a groan out of Grantaire as his fingernails grazed his scalp, “and where is the skeptic I have known all these years? You believe in nothing.”

“He is right here,” Grantaire said, a little roughly. “And he believes in you.”

There was no answer for that but another kiss, and another, and another. The night was still cold, but Grantaire was warm — warm and gentle, his soft, shining eyes asking permission for every kiss, every touch.

“Are you all right?” he whispered against Enjolras’ lips as he rose carefully to his feet, letting Enjolras hold tight to his neck as Grantaire adjusted his legs around his hips. “You are trembling.”

“I would be worse at the very gates of Heaven,” Enjolras said, a little more earnestly than even he had expected. “And you?”

“Oh, I am quite miserable. There is a beautiful man here who will not stop kissing me.”

Enjolras swatted at his shoulder, earning a rich peal of laughter that seemed to pass from Grantaire’s chest into his own. “Be serious.”

Grantaire’s eyes flashed. “I am _wild.”_

Anything that Enjolras might have said to that was interrupted by the distant tolling of a bell. Grantaire immediately turned toward the sound, still clutching Enjolras to his chest, and they listened in wide-eyed wonderment as a great cheer swelled up in answer to the chimes.

One, two, three, four.

Grantaire held Enjolras tighter, face pressed to the crook of his neck.

Five, six, seven, eight.

From below, there was a joyous crash as it came to the Amis’ awareness that the old year had ended, and that a new one was just begun.

Nine, ten, eleven—

“Twelve,” Grantaire murmured onto Enjolras’ skin. He looked up, eyes aglow. “Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year,” said Enjolras with a smile, and kissed him again as the first fireworks of 1832 broke across the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Thanks so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed it. If you did, please leave kudos or a comment; it always makes my day to receive either, and they would be very much appreciated. If you like, please let me know what I can do better.
> 
> I needed a slight break from writing chapter 3 of Calls Me Home, so I thought I'd write something quick on the side, except it ended up being not so quick, and I apologize. I'll get back to the work on the new chapter soon.
> 
> Have a wonderful day :)


End file.
